Yuletide Yukon
by KJG
Summary: Beachcomber and Tracks discover the nasty secret behind Christmas legend.


Tracks' left leg was shredded beneath the knee. And he was engulfed in snow. Life certainly did stink at that particular moment.

"Come on, Tracks. He's making another pass." Beachcomber was at Tracks' side, pulling on his arms.

"Beachcomber, you'll bend my wings!" Tracks fought him off and attempted to stand. He slid and was promptly back on his posterior. Looking up, he saw that a white jet was bearing down on them. "Okay, help me."

Beachcomber grunted as he lifted the robot against his shoulder. "Tracks, your bad karma is weighing down on you."

The white jet opened fire, shrieking with laughter as the two robots dove aside.

Tracks, once again in the snow, grumbled. "Starscream is toying with us."

"Yes," agreed Beachcomber, "but he's a rough playmate." He looked back at the smoking remains of their shuttle and then at the mountain looming above them. "Onward, ho!"

Tracks braced himself against the smaller Autobot as they rose. "I can't transform into my corvette mode, let alone fly. Shall we run?"

"Yessir," proclaimed Beachcomber as they quickly hobbled for any cover that the mountain side might offer. Tracks, down to one useable leg, clung to Beachcomber.

"Time to put you on ice, Autoscum!" cackled Starscream as he once again approached the fleeing robots. He unleashed the power of his guns, etching a path towards their feet.

The Autobots heard the approaching bullets and cut diagonally across the snow. Starscream changed course to follow.

"Beachcomber!" howled Tracks.

"Eh?"

Tracks pointed to an ice crevice directly in their path. "Think we can make it across?"

"Yep," Beachcomber assured him. "Jump!" Bullets almost upon them, the pair leapt and dropped straight down the crevice.

"Ha!" laughed Starscream. "If that's the way you wish to die, so be it!"

Tracks and Beachcomber tumbled, each trying to grab hold of ice and each pulling the other further into the crevice.

"Umph." Tracks slammed into a frozen floor. He did a quick flex to make sure that his other leg was still functioning, felt that it had survived intact, and sat up. Beachcomber was behind him, staring in wonder at the icy cavern above them and making snow angels.

"Whoa," said Beachcomber.

"Beachcomber," snapped Tracks, "Could you help me up so that we may get out of here?"

"Why?" inquired Beachcomber. "Starscream can't get us down here." He started to whistle.

"That may very well be," sighed Tracks, "but I'm not inclined to make this my new home."

Beachcomber sat up. "Well, we could find....elves!"

Tracks went blank. "Beachcomber, what in blazes are you talking about?" Beachcomber pointed behind Tracks.

Tracks turned and jumped when he saw that a petite man with pointy ears was grinning at them like an idiot.

"Now that I have your attention, gentleman," peeped the elf, "welcome to the North Pole!"

"My word!" gasped Tracks.

"North Pole?" said Beachcomber. "We're in Canada."

The elf waved his hands. "That's unimportant. What is important is that you two have stumbled upon a place of dreams, a place so wondrous that the children within you will be filled to the brim with..."

"Stop it! Just hush for a moment!" interjected Tracks. "You are an elf!"

"That is true, sir," complimented the elf.

"I was never a child," pouted Beachcomber.

"Why do you live in an ice crevice?" sputtered Tracks.

"Oh, I don't," explained the elf. He gestured behind him with a large sweep of the arm. "I reside in there." The Autobots gazed there to see an ornate bronze door. "Welcome to Santa's workshop."

"Oog,' said Beachcomber.

"Why don't you join me on a grand tour?" enticed the elf.

Beachcomber hopped up and was at his side, towering over the elf.

Tracks raised a hand. `Yeah, but..."

"Oh!" Beachcomber rushed back to Tracks and hoisted him up. "Come on, Tracks! This will be a trip!"

"Beachcomber, I..." Tracks slipped and slid down Beachcomber's arm.

"You're injured!" said the elf, worried. "I assure you that our establishment had nothing to do with it! In fact, if you could kindly step inside and read our small print about liability..."

"I was hurt in a shuttle crash." Tracks assured the stammering elf.

"Ah, good," sighed the elf. He went wide-eyed. "No, no, not good! What I mean is that I'm thankful our organization was not to blame for your most sad misfortune. In fact, we'd be willing to repair your leg."

"Oh, really?" said Tracks. "Lead the way."

"Follow," said the elf with a big grin. The two Autobots looked at each other with mixed expectations and trailed the tiny tour guide through the bronze door.

"Over here," elucidated the elf, "is the main lobby where we've entertained such guests in the past as Sir Winston Churchill, Benjamin Franklin and the Martians."

Tracks looked at Beachcomber with disgust, but the smaller Autobot was busy glancing at the plush, jade walls that stretched way beyond their heads. He stepped back from Tracks and spun, wrapping his eyes in the fantastic view.

"I'd sell my left leg for a pad like this." He quickly realized his faux pas and nodded to the injured Tracks. "Sorry."

"It's all very nice,' said Tracks, leaning against the wall. "but I'd love to walk normally at your earliest convenience."

"Oh, forgive me!" blurted the elf. "We'll take care of that in the toy shop."

Beachcomber watched the elf pass and sighed. "Tracks, could the human legend truly be true?"

Tracks pondered and with his most thoughtful expression said, "Honestly, I don't care."

"We have guests!" announced the tour guide elf as they entered the greasy toy shop. A dozen other elves were hunched over benches, dabbling with whatever goodies were in their bins.

"Oh, splendid," snarled a gnarled elf who did not look up from his task. "Dang p.r. elves. Please communicate my regrets on not being allotted a bath for the last two days."

"Eww," said Tracks.

"Never mind that, Greco" snapped the elf. He strolled over to an ancient elf who was toying with a complicated project. "Gromis, we have an injured robot on our hands. Would you like to have a look at his leg?" There was an eerie glint in the guide's eyes.

"Oh," exclaimed Gromis, "I'd love to!" He hobbled over to Tracks. "Please have a seat, dear heart."

Tracks grudgingly complied, taking his rest on a huge beanbag chair.

Beachcomber, meanwhile, turned to a lady elf who was hammering. "Hey," Beachcomber said with a smile. She promptly ignored him.

"Ah," said Gromis, eyeing Tracks' shredded leg with a monocle. "I've never seen technology like this. It seems multifunctional."

"I'm a Transformer," explained Tracks. "I turn into a sports car you'd kill for. Now, can you fix it?"

"I'll do my best," said Gromis with pride. He beckoned six of his best craftsman and they speedily began work on the leg, meshing into such a blur that Tracks could not accurately monitor their progress.

Beachcomber began to wander. As he passed the tables, each elf hunched further over his or her work and eyed him with suspicion. "Toys," he muttered, "offered with goodness in heart. It gives me warm fuzzies." He stopped behind Gromis' temporarily abandoned project and peered in the box. "Wow." He pulled out a green tube, with "bazooka" written on the side, and held it up to the light. "Some kid is going to love this."

"Done!" Gromis and his workers stood back. "Care to try it out?"

"That was quick!" complimented Tracks. He hopped to his feet and looked down with pride. Then, he gasped. "It's ghastly! What have you done!" His leg was still shredded but surrounding it was a mass of steel that served as a functional brace. "It looks like it's made of tinker toys!"

"Well," chuckled Gromis, "it's a temporary solution to a nagging problem."

Suddenly, one wall of the lab exploded in a blast of flame. Everyone turned to Beachcomber, who was holding a smoking bazooka. "Hey," he said weakly, "that toy packs a punch."

Tracks hobbled on his own over to Beachcomber and examined the bazooka. "Y'know," he said, turning to the guilty-looking elves, "I thought you were making toys here!"

"We do!" lied the guide.

"It depends on your definition of `toy'," said Gromis.

"I don't think parents would approve," cautioned Beachcomber.

"We haven't made toys in years!" Greco grunted without looking up from his work. "Santa went into the red, as it were, and finally realized the jolly and generous game didn't pay. What use is the inner satisfaction of giving when world governments will pay the big bucks for weapons delivered down their chimneys? No import fees! Unfortunately, we don't share in the loot. And that Santa insists we put in twelve hour shifts."

"Beachcomber," stated Tracks, "You've led us to an elf sweat-shop that pumps out arsenals. What have you to say for yourself?"

Beachcomber carefully set down the bazooka and faced the elves. "Why do you let that man Santa put you down? You once delivered joy but have given that up for death in ribbons! That's plain bad."

"Whatever," Tracks said, rubbing his forehead. "Look, my oratory friend and I will be heading out. Could you lead the way to the surface?"

"Oh, you're staying," chuckled Gromis. "Imagine what our buyers would pay for transforming vehicle technology."

Beachcomber gasped. "It would be just like M.A.S.K.!"

"No freaking way is that happening!" yelled Tracks.

"Attack!" ordered Gromis. The two Autobots suddenly found themselves immersed in a wave of savage elves, snarling and biting their limbs.

"Wait till Cosmos hears about this!" said Beachcomber, trying to shake off the tiny attackers.

"Just wait a minute! You're chipping my paint!" Tracks swung his arm, flinging off a few of the elves. "Let's make a deal! Perhaps we can remove your turn-of-the-century working conditions. Interested?"

"Yeah," applauded Beachcomber, "Unionize!"

The elves' ears perked further and Gromis rubbed his chin. "Halt the attack." The little people curbed their ferocity but clung tightly to the Autobots. "What do you have in mind, robot?"

Tracks tried to regain as much composure as possible with an elven horde perched on his shoulders. "We'll have a `chat' with this Santa person."

"Tracks," Beachcomber protested, "We can't rough up Santa Claus!"

"Hmm," said Gromis, "I like the idea. Get rid of Santa and his laws and we'll grant your freedom."

"Done!" Tracks agreed.

Gromis signaled the elves to recede. "But we're coming with you. If you try to escape first, well, we're well-armed." He grinned. Beachcomber noticed that the elves were loading themselves down with guns and ammo.

"There's no need for this!" shouted the guide. "Everything is okay! Status-quo!" He was given a multitude of angry looks and sat down, grumbling to himself.

"Let's roll!" announced Gromis. The Autobots moved forward with the elves, marching towards the once jolly one's location.

"Tracks," whispered Beachcomber. "I just thought of something. If these elves have so many weapons, why haven't they taken on Santa themselves?"

Gromis overheard him and laughed. "Oh, you don't think we've tried?"

The Autobots exchanged glances as they entered a comfy room warmed by a popping fire. A high-backed chair sat in front of the stone furnace, with a red hat visible near its top.

Tracks cracked his knuckles and crossed his arms, "Pardon me, Santa, but we'd like a word."

There was silence and then the chair slowly swiveled around. Below the hat was a cherubic face and the welcoming grin of a grandmother. "Oh, hello, dears! I didn't hear you come in."

"Mrs. Claus?" asked Beachcomber.

"Oh, giddy me!" laughed the old woman. "I rarely receive guests. I...I..." Suddenly, she jerked violently and fell silent.

"Well," said Tracks, "that was unexpected."

Beachcomber dashed forward and leaned down over the old woman. "Tracks, I think she had a heart attack!" He went to gently monitor her pulse and was shocked when her hand snapped off. "Oh, no!"

"Good going, Beachcomber! You broke the human!"

"I don't think so," said Beachcomber, examining the hand. "She's not human." He displayed the broken hand, which hung on wires from her arm.

Suddenly, the old woman's face began to bubble and melt in the heat. Her limbs started to move. Beachcomber leapt back.

"What a gruesome Christmas decoration!" complained Tracks.

Mrs. Claus' electronic eyes blinked back online and the exposed metal frame started to talk. "Honey, we have guests!"

The Autobots watched as the side wall slid back, revealing a dark corridor. A towering figure, cloaked in red, emerged from the shadows. Its face was somewhat human, but the pale skin was flaked and irritated by the cybernetic enhancements attaching the head to the rest of its body. The creature had four muscled arms under its fluffy coat and its eight metal legs clicked forward into the room. "Ho, ho, ho," it bellowed, "Are my guests naughty or nice?"

Tracks spun, to see that the elves were all in hiding behind furniture.

The beast moved into the light, revealing a slobbering mouth that leaked into its unkept beard.

Beachcomber placed his arms behind him. "Hey there, Santa."

"What business do you have," purred the lumbering Claus, his gloved hands clenching each of their six fingers. "Once told, I have a hankering for milk-dunked robots!"

Tracks postured. "You're an arms dealer, a slave driver and quite ugly. In my book, that qualifies you for a pummeling!"

"Free the elves, man!" contributed Beachcomber.

Santa howled with an animal fury unlike that ever seen in Canada and pounded the ground with his four arms. He stampeded forward, tongue whipping back and forth. The Autobots dashed immediately out the door.

"Santa didn't age well," Tracks panted. "How are we supposed to take that down?!"

Beachcomber shrugged. "You know that's not my department." The minibot looked up as he fled and pointed a sign out to Tracks. "Check it out. Perhaps there's a means of escape there." Santa appeared behind them, roaring.

Tracks glanced at the beast and then at the sign, "Hmm, `Reindeer Docking Bay.' It's more promising than running the other way to face elves with guns. Come on!"

Santa snapping at their heels, the Autobots clambered down the corridor. They managed to gain ground, but made the horrifying discovery that the doorway leading to the bay was too small.

"Oh, no!" Tracks hollered. "This is the one door in the place actually tailored for humans!"

Beachcomber transformed to dune buggy mode, backed up and squeezed through the entrance on two side wheels. "No problem!"

Tracks turned to see Santa appear a short distance behind him. The beast was quietly and badly chanting "Jingle Bells."

"Beachcomber!" Tracks pleaded. "I'm too big to get through! Find another entrance and I'll run to it!"

Beachcomber transformed and looked around. "There isn't one, Tracks! Try your best to get through! Break the wall in!"

Tracks pounded on the metal wall to no avail. "It won't budge! I'm doomed, Beachcomber! Tell the Autobots of my valor!"

Beachcomber peered through the door and saw that Santa was joyously squeezing himself down the hallway. "They won't believe it, Tracks! You can tell them yourself. Leap through the doorway and I'll pull!"

Tracks backed up and dashed at the entrance. He managed to lodge himself through the medium-sized doorway up to his chest, but his midsection wouldn't get through. He hollered as Santa grabbed his legs. Beachcomber snatched his arms and the two began a tug-of-war with Tracks. Santa bit down on Tracks' left leg, breaking off the brace, and was flung back with his own force.

There are times when beings supernaturally exceed their natural strength when someone they care for is in danger, such as a mother lifting up a car to save a child trapped underneath. Despite all his obnoxious ways, Tracks was Beachcomber's friend and that day the little Autobot found just enough inner and outer strength to yank his comrade through the door. Then again, Beachcomber would have done the same thing for a trapped hedgehog.

Tracks flew through the door and skidded beside Beachcomber. The larger Autobot sat up and could not stifle his amazement. "Just how did you do that?"

Beachcomber smiled and looked at the sky. "The force."

Tracks shook his head and tried to stand, but realized that his brace was gone. "Care to give me a hand?"

Beachcomber gave Tracks a shoulder to lean on and looked at their surroundings. In the center of the room was a sealed, covered pen marked "Reindeer." The ceiling was a dome that apparently could open, allowing a sleigh full of toys to exit. Beachcomber pointed up. "We have to open the dome and uncover the pen. Hopefully, there will be a sled in there that we can attach the deer to and fly out of this place with."

"Beachcomber," reprimanded Tracks, "You don't actually believe in flying reindeer? Even if they are in there, the sled will probably be too small for us!"

Beachcomber shrugged. "Have a little bit of faith, Tracks. Besides, Santa is bigger than we are, these days."

"Yeah," scoffed Tracks. "Too many cookies."

Tracks' mangled brace was spit through the doorway and Santa began to furiously pound at the wall. The torrent lasted a long minute and then, to the Autobots' relief, subsided.

"He's given up," Beachcomber sighed.

"Possibly," hoped Tracks. "Let's open the ceiling."

Beachcomber set Tracks down and located the dome control panel, which was next to the light switch. He bent over and pressed a green button. A crack of cold light appeared above them and the ceiling halves began to recede.

"Good," said Tracks. Then, he began to sing Christmas music. At least, that's what Beachcomber thought. Confused, he turned to Tracks and saw that he was staring at the dome with horror. Following his lead, Beachcomber saw that Santa was perched on the dome's edge.

"Egads!" shouted Tracks. He didn't know what kind of effort to make but a last ditch one. "Quick, open the reindeer pen! Maybe they're already attached to the sled!"

Beachcomber surveyed the panel with panicked eyes and found the proper control. Painfully slow, the pen's cover began to slide back.

"It's not every day," hissed the owner of glowing eyes from his perch, "that you get to be eaten by a legend. Of course, I'm not quite the man I used to be." Santa jumped, his spidery legs preparing for impact.

"Oh, dear," said Beachcomber.

As Santa was in mid-air, the pen's hatch opened wide enough to free the animals inside. To the Autobots' shock, they were not reindeer. Santa found himself surrounded by bloodthirsty, howling, winged wolves. The pack of beasts converged on him in his fall and followed him to the pen's floor, where more wolves awaited feeding time.

"Down boys, down!" hollered Santa as the wolves made short work of his fleshy parts and ripped apart his metallic bits to get to more fleshy parts.

Outside the pen, Tracks and Beachcomber listened to the sickening fray.

"That's terrible," gasped Beachcomber.

"Oh, well," Tracks sniffed. "He was an insult to us robots."

Beachcomber sighed. "A good man who lost his humanity in both body and heart; what a tragedy."

"You guys kicked Santa's rear end!"

The Autobots turned to see a thoroughly happy elf. Behind him was the rest of the armed horde. Gromis stepped forward and scratched his head. "We thought you fled there for a moment. In fact, when the circumstances are fully considered, it seems Santa's death was pure luck. You two would have attempted escape regardless of our fate. The deal is off." He motioned for the elves to aim their weapons at the Autobots.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Tracks bellowed. "It doesn't matter how we came through! We freed you from that tyrant's slavery."

"Yes," admitted Gromis, "and now we'll be free to earn all the profits ourselves." The elves cheered.

Tracks frowned. "Congratulations, Beachcomber. We just made the world a better place for gunrunners."

Beachcomber stepped forth. "Wait a minute, Gromis. How many buyers do you have for your weapons?"

"Plenty," assured Gromis.

"And how many children are in the world?"

Gromis paused. "Erm, millions."

"So," concluded Beachcomber, "wouldn't it be worth your while to sell toys instead of guns?"

Tracks groaned.

Gromis scoffed. "People buy their toys at stores these days. We'd go out of business in a year!" The other elves laughed.

Beachcomber waited for silence. "Things would be different if you elves, as a company, could offer a unique product."

Gromis' eyebrow went up. "Go on."

Beachcomber continued. "For only the price of a sleigh ride home, I will give you a trade secret, a product idea, that will bring in oodles of cash for years to come."

Gromis cleared his throat. "Alright. Alright, let's hear it." Beachcomber bent over and whispered something is Gromis' ear. He then borrowed a pad and pencil from another elf and wrote down a list as Gromis looked on. The elf's eyes went bright and his toothless mouth cackled. "I love it, I love it!" Beachcomber stood up and Gromis turned to the other elves. "Boys and girls, prepare the sleigh!"

The elves, trusting their leader, bustled forth. Tracks crawled over to the grinning Beachcomber. "Just what did you tell them?"

Beachcomber was grinning. "I can't tell you, Tracks. It's a trade secret."

"Well, I never..." began Tracks but the minibot wandered off to the reindeer pen, which had just been opened. The winged wolves, freshly feasted, were quite relaxed as the elves hooked them up to the huge sleigh which sat in the pen's center.

Beachcomber cautiously approached the shredded remains of Santa. His chest still heaved, although slightly. The cyborg's eyes rolled to Beachcomber, pleading for absolution.

Tracks crawled past and took his seat on the sled, grabbing the one which had the best view. He looked warily at the wolves and got one of the elves' attention. "Hey, those aren't reindeer."

The elf shrugged. "They ate the reindeer."

"Oh," said Tracks.

Beachcomber knelt down and pulled off Santa's cap, revealing a mass of circuitry underneath. "It wasn't always like this," gurgled Santa. I was human once, caring and giving. But these implants killed what humanity I had."

Beachcomber nodded. "I know."

Santa looked at the sled. "You must go."

Beachcomber looked at Santa's twisted body. "I can't leave you like this."

Santa nodded. "There's nothing you can do for me...go..."

"Hey, Beachcomber!" called Tracks. "Will you come on? These gnomes are looking at me funny." Tracks saw that one of the elves was staring intently at him and jotting down notes. He shooed her. "Will you cut that out?!"

Beachcomber took his leave of Santa and entered the sleigh. The elves, done hitching the winged wolves, climbed in.

"Alright," Gromis ordered. "We have a delivery to make. Haw!" He pulled the reigns and the wolves took flight, leading the sleigh out of the dome.

Looking back, Tracks saw they had just left the false top of a mountain. He turned to Beachcomber, who was sitting on the sleigh's floor with his legs crossed on the seat. Tracks' curiosity was unbearable. "C'mon..."

"Nope!"

Starscream, meanwhile, was soaring over Canada in a chipper mood. "Add two more Autobots to my tally! Ha ha ha!" Suddenly, his wing was clipped off and he found himself spiraling towards the ground. He screamed and transformed as he hit the snow, burning like a campfire.

"Crazy flier!" yelled Starscream. Looking skyward, he saw that his collision appeared to be with a wolf-guided sled. "What the..." he began, but finally realized he was on fire. "Ahhh!!!" He ran forth, dropped and rolled in the snow.

After a few seconds, he saw that a horseback mountie was watching his dilemma with interest. "What are you waiting for, idiot?!" yelled Starscream as he tried to pat down his minor fires. "Put me out!" The mountie shook his head and continued on his path.

*****

And that year's Christmas, as well as many that followed, brought interesting gifts to the wish lists of children the world over. For a new event would enlighten their imaginations, one that involved an independent Canadian toy company and their exciting new line of transforming robots... 

  



End file.
